He was a wretched fellow，not exactly educated，not exactly ignorant，who had been a mountebank at fairs，and a writer for the public.
The town took a great interest in the trial.On the eve of the day fixed for the execution of the condemned man，the chaplain of the prison fell ill.
A priest was needed to attend the criminal in his last moments.
They sent for the cure.It seems that he refused to come，saying，'That is no affair of mine.
I have nothing to do with that unpleasant task，and with that mountebank：
I，too，am ill；and besides，it is not my place.'This reply was reported to the Bishop，who said，'Monsieur le Cure is right：
it is not his place；it is mine.'
He went instantly to the prison，descended to the cell of the'mountebank，'called him by name，took him by the hand，and spoke to him.He passed the entire day with him，forgetful of food and sleep，praying to God for the soul of the condemned man，and praying the condemned man for his own.
He told him the best truths，which are also the most simple.
He was father，brother，friend；he was bishop only to bless.
He taught him everything，encouraged and consoled him.The man was on the point of dying in despair.
Death was an abyss to him.As he stood trembling on its mournful brink，he recoiled with horror.He was not sufficiently ignorant to be absolutely indifferent.His condemnation，which had been a profound shock，had，in a manner，broken through，here and there，that wall which separates us from the mystery of things，and which we call life.
He gazed incessantly beyond this world through these fatal breaches，and beheld only darkness.
The Bishop made him see light.
On the following day，when they came to fetch the unhappy wretch，the Bishop was still there.
He followed him，and exhibited himself to the eyes of the crowd in his purple camail and with his episcopal cross upon his neck，side by side with the criminal bound with cords.
He mounted the tumbril with him，he mounted the scaffold with him.The sufferer，who had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day，was radiant.
He felt that his soul was reconciled，and he hoped in God.
The Bishop embraced him，and at the moment when the knife was about to fall，he said to him：
'God raises from the dead him whom man slays；he whom his brothers have rejected finds his Father once more.
Pray，believe，enter into life：
the Father is there.'When he descended from the scaffold，there was something in his look which made the people draw aside to let him pass.
They did not know which was most worthy of admiration，his pallor or his serenity.On his return to the humble dwelling，which he designated，with a smile，as his palace，he said to his sister，'I have just officiated pontifically.'
Since the most sublime things are often those which are the least understood，there were people in the town who said，when commenting on this conduct of the Bishop，'It is affectation.'
This，however，was a remark which was confined to the drawing-rooms.The populace，which perceives no jest in holy deeds，was touched，and admired him.
As for the Bishop，it was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine，and it was a long time before he recovered from it.
In fact，when the scaffold is there，all erected and prepared，it has something about it which produces hallucination.One may feel a certain indifference to the death penalty，one may refrain from pronouncing upon it，from saying yes or no，so long as one has not seen a guillotine with one's own eyes：but if one encounters one of them，the shock is violent；one is forced to decide，and to take part for or against.Some admire it，like de Maistre；others execrate it，like Beccaria.The guillotine is the concretion of the law；it is called vindicte；it is not neutral，and it does not permit you to remain neutral.He who sees it shivers with the most mysterious of shivers.All social problems erect their interrogation point around this chopping-knife.The scaffold is a vision.
The scaffold is not a piece of carpentry；the scaffold is not a machine；the scaffold is not an inert bit of mechanism constructed of wood，iron and cords.
It seems as though it were a being，possessed of I know not what sombre initiative；one would say that this piece of carpenter's work saw，that this machine heard，that this mechanism understood，that this wood，this iron，and these cords were possessed of will.In the frightful meditation into which its presence casts the soul the scaffold appears in terrible guise，and as though taking part in what is going on.
The scaffold is the accomplice of the executioner；it devours，it eats flesh，it drinks blood；the scaffold is a sort of monster fabricated by the judge and the carpenter，a spectre which seems to live with a horrible vitality composed of all the death which it has inflicted.
Therefore，the impression was terrible and profound；on the day following the execution，and on many succeeding days，the Bishop appeared to be crushed.
The almost violent serenity of the funereal moment had disappeared；the phantom of social justice tormented him.
He，who generally returned from all his deeds with a radiant satisfaction，seemed to be reproaching himself.At times he talked to himself，and stammered lugubrious monologues in a low voice.
This is one which his sister overheard one evening and preserved：
'I did not think that it was so monstrous.It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law.
Death belongs to God alone.By what right do men touch that unknown thing？'
In course of time these impressions weakened and probably vanished.Nevertheless，it was observed that the Bishop thenceforth avoided passing the place of execution.
M.Myriel could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the sick and dying.
He did not ignore the fact that therein lay his greatest duty and his greatest labor.
Widowed and orphaned families had no need to summon him；he came of his own accord.
